


The Last

by Seren_Maris



Category: Power Rangers, Power Rangers S.P.D.
Genre: Drama, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seren_Maris/pseuds/Seren_Maris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am certain that, one day, the same powers that cause Jack, Z, Syd, Sky and Bridge to be shunned and feared will be valued by their species; but not, perhaps, by their parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last

_"To be alone is to be different, to be different is to be alone."_

 _\- Suzanne Gordon_

\---

A lifetime of travel and contact with alien species has shown me that "normal" is a relative state. What is normal and comes naturally to one person is strange and even monstrous to the next. For every human child with unusual powers, I can name at least one alien species with identical abilities. Sky's power would be considered normal on Antila Seven; Z could blend like a native on Sulafat Five. I am certain that, one day, the powers that cause them to be shunned and feared will be valued by their species - but not, perhaps, by their parents.

"… It's a dangerous galaxy out there, Commander," Mrs. Delgado reminds me, her face streaked with tears. Z has run away - not for the first time - but weeks have passed and she still has not returned. "Who knows where she is, or what's happened to her? This is all that Landors boy's fault, he was never any good. You have to help me find her and bring her home."

If anything, I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner. "I'm afraid that's out of my jurisdiction, Mrs. Delgado. I suggest you contact your local police department."

"Don't you think I already tried that? I…"

I brace myself for another tirade. But then she sees something in my face that makes her pause.

"No," Mrs. Delgado breathes, horrified. "You know where she is. Are you really going to tell me that she's better off out there, on the streets, than with me?"

When it became clear that I have no intention of answering that question, she begins to shake with tiny, hitching sobs. "I've changed, Commander." She wipes away tears. "Please, don't punish me for what happened in the past."

Experience tells me that her remorse will be short-lived. Addiction is a powerful thing, and drugs can numb even the worst regrets. I choose not to remind her of the many times Z has run away and returned, only to come back to an empty house or worse.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Mrs. Delgado. If Z turns up, I'll be the first to let you know."

"Don't lie to me!" she hisses. Her face shifts into a mask of fury. "You may fool the others, but you, Commander, have a heart of stone. You couldn't save anyone on Sirius and now you're not able to care about anyone, anymore."

And maybe it is even true.

"I want you to know, Cruger," she says at last, "that it makes me sick that you're responsible for the defense of this planet."

The screen went blank.

\---

That night, I dreamt of Sirius. The white, glowing speck of the second sun traced across the sky, dulled by smoke and haze. I never dream of the screams, only the silence that followed. The heat was stifling, unbearable.

As far as I could see, what was once a lush, verdant world was now a charred wasteland. The Terror darkened the sky, forever frozen in memory and nightmares.

And Isinia was gone. I had failed.

Behind me, Canis, a city with a thousand years of history and culture, was burning.

\---

"You had him committed to a mental hospital?"

Mrs. Carson glares at me for a long moment. Then she sighs, and her shoulders slump as if she carries the weight of the world on her thin frame. In retrospect, my response could have been more tactful.

"Don't judge me, Commander. It was for his sake, as well as ours." Her eyes are distant and unfocused, her voice vacant with shame. "I - I know how it sounds and maybe we are partly to blame. Perhaps we spent too much time away, paid less attention to him than we should have. But Bridge seemed so normal, compared to the others."

The others. Even with the Landors self-exiled to the colonies and the Tates living in strict, unbreakable secrecy, they and their children are still a threat to Mrs. Carson's carefully constructed world of order and feigned normality.

"We thought we were so lucky, that we had won the genetic lottery. No duplication, no shape-shifting, no force fields." Mrs. Carson heaves another sigh. "I wouldn't have called you. But his father suggested that maybe he wasn't just crazy. That maybe it was... something else."

\---

Bridge has changed. He was not yet born, of course, when the Carsons retired from S.P.D. to lead a life of decadent opulence in the northern heights of Newtech City. I saw him years ago, but only briefly, as a happy five year old accompanying his nanny to the zoo. He was all smiles and curiosity and excitement. It seems that, somewhere along the way, he had lost that, his energy and innocence ground out by fate and circumstance.

I crouch down until I am at eye level. Everything in the room is blunted or padded. A small window with metal bars looks out onto the manicured lawns of the Brookhaven Institute of Mental Health.

"My name is Doggie," I say in my gentlest voice. "I'm here to help you. Can you understand me?"

Bridge looks younger than his thirteen years. Yellow and green bruises trace their way around his jaw. He glances at me, eyes filled with pain and confusion, before returning his gaze to the floor.

I straighten. "I understand if you don't trust me enough to talk about it today," I tell him. "But I'll be back, as often as it takes."

\---

The following week is particularly busy, between regular attacks on the city and Fowler's upcoming inspection. The next time I return, Bridge is sitting on the floor beside a stack of paper and a pile of soft crayons. He stops drawing as I enter.

"Do you remember me?" I ask. A piece of paper slides across the floor towards me, along with a few crayons. Bridge returns to his drawings and I crouch down on the floor a safe distance away.

I do the obligatory doodles of the only thing I know how to draw - the S.P.D. logo. At some point I realize that Bridge has finished his drawing and is watching me intently.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of an artist," I show him my misshapen logo and set it down on the grey floor. "What are you drawing?"

Bridge hesitates and then shrugs, clutching his drawing close. Is he afraid that I'll take it from him?

"It's okay," I reassure him. "You don't have to show me if you don't want to."

It might have been my imagination, but I think I saw a tiny nod of gratitude.

\---

I have become a regular visitor and, as I later discover, his only one. Mostly, we draw in what I hope is a companionable silence. Sometimes I talk. I tell him about famous battles, entertaining stories about cadets. He never speaks, but I know he is listening attentively.

"… and can you believe that she was in her dorm room the entire time?"

This time, I am rewarded by a tiny smile and a muffled laugh even Bridge seems surprised to hear. The teenager moves away and shuffles through a pile of drawings before selecting three. He solemnly hands the first drawing to me. I accept it like the precious gift of trust which it is.

Even with crude tools, the drawing has emotional impact. A tiny figure sits in a maelstrom of colors and darkness. The crayon has been applied so heavily it covers the entire page. Inside the sea of darkness there are curves and angles of colors, like a kaleidoscope.

"You're a very talented artist," I observe and study it again. There is something fascinating about the drawing. "Is this how you feel? Overwhelmed and alone?"

He fidgets and stares at his feet.

"You're strong. I know you are. You can get through this. And you're not alone. I promised to do everything in my power to help you, and I will."

I look at the second drawing, a portrait of me. In the drawing, I seem to glow with a blue and green outline. The insignia of S.P.D. are conspicuously absent. This is not a drawing of the Commander of Earth. This is a drawing of Anubis Cruger, and I have a sudden intuition that this is how Bridge sees me. I try to hand it back to him, but Bridge refuses.

I'll keep it, someplace save and private. Perhaps on the wall of my quarters. I set it aside to look at the last picture, and it takes me a moment to recognize the battle of Sirius. There is a tiny version of myself battling a shadowy, one-horned figure. The four moons hover in the sky and, above it all, the outline of the Terror. How could he have known?

"Did you ever find her?" Bridge asks in a tiny voice, rough from disuse.

"What?"

He repeats himself. "Isinia. Did you ever find her?"

I flinch. "Isinia is dead."

"No." Bridge shakes his head. "I know you'll see her again one day."

And suddenly, of that I have no doubt.

\---

The year is 2022, and yet very little has changed since I first arrived on Earth.

There have been amazing advances in technology since the human species came into contact with the rest of the galaxy. It is no longer uncommon for people to live to 200 years. Distances that once took hours to travel can now be crossed in seconds. And yet, life has changed very little for the average resident of my city.

The rich have gotten richer, wealthier beyond the dreams of any twentieth century mogul. They live in glittering high-rises and exclusive communities, and go on vacation to destinations across the galaxy and beyond. And the poor have gotten poorer. There are areas of Newtech city where even the police no longer patrol, places that are never seen, even in a newscast or a holo-brochure. This is one of those places.

A huddled figure, human or alien, takes shelter under a cardboard box, while another mutters to himself and paces, dark hair plastered to his smudged face. He looks into the shadows and meets my eyes. He stares, transfixed, before scurrying away with a yelp.

I pass onto the next street and take shelter under a shop overhang. The rain sounds like bullets as it bounces off the makeshift scrap metal roof. Across the street and to my left, two teenagers are sitting in a doorway. The girl has her arm wrapped around a scruffy, sodden brown dog. I watch as they share a slice from a dirty pizza box and then pass the crust to the dog.

The dog looks up and sniffs in my direction, and Z Delgado pauses, her eyes darting over the darkened street. I retreat deeper into the shadows. If my interest in them should become known, it would lead to uncomfortable questions and unwanted attention. Unfortunately, with their parents searching for them, I cannot risk enrolling them in the Academy until they are legal adults. At least here I can keep a close eye on them.

The only way for them to remain safe is if they appear ordinary. At the moment, those two are no longer the super-powered consequences of an experiment gone wrong. Anyone who looks sees two homeless children, living alone in the shadows of command headquarters.

Nothing more, and nothing less.


End file.
